Too Far
by goldenstringoffate
Summary: Allura reaches out to Shiro in an unusual way after a crushing defeat by the Galra.


Too Far

They are far. And being in the corner pockets of the galaxy, billions of miles away from home, far is saying something. During a particularly difficult battle against the Galra that caused severe damage to the castle ship and to the team's morale, they had voted to jump several solar systems to recuperate. However, everyone has very different ideas on what recuperation entails. All of the paladins disappear to deal with the setback in their own personal ways.

Allura finds Shiro in the training room. She stands in the doorway, gathering the courage to enter. He is intensely focused, defeating every bot with unbridled aggression. Sweat glistening on his forehead. Eyes dull and unseeing. Movements just a beat off from the exhaustion. This violent passion looks foreign on him. She knows that he shoulders the blame for the team's defeat. The burden of a leader. She feels it too, painfully so. But it hurts her more to watch him isolate himself.

She swings her arms over her head, stretching, tightens her high ponytail, and adjusts her fingerless gloves. She struts in with a determined fire in her eyes and Shiro straightens, feeling it permeate off her. He is about to apologize. For what, he doesn't know. Instead he asks, "Do you need something, Princess?" He swipes his gloved hand across his forehead, pushing the tuft of ivory hair back. He is turned to the side, regarding her with caution and keeping her at a distance.

"May I join you?" He watches her as she settles into a fight stance he doesn't recognize. "I don't think that's a good idea… right now." His voice is low, fearful of himself, eyes trained on the clenching and unclenching of his fists. He usually kept the lid on tight, but it is loose tonight, and he hoped to release it on the lifeless, unfeeling bots. He especially didn't want Allura to see him like this.

"Let me rephrase: We are going to spar now." She lunges at him, raising her knee to his chin. He leans back just in time and brings his hands up to catch her ankle. She swings her other leg up to land a hit on his jaw. He stumbles backward, rubbing at his jaw, eyes wide with shock. A cocky grin spreads across her face. The last time they went on a mission together, she was clumsily trying to handle a gun. He wasn't there when she had challenged Haggar and the Druids, driving the witch to her knees.

He dashes toward her, but drops at the last moment to swipe her from her feet. She somersaults to the side to avoid the next incoming blow. They continue like this for some time– attacking and counterattacking, strategizing and reacting. "If I didn't know any better, I would say you were holding back." They are both breathing hard, hiding behind provocative smirks and experienced techniques. They each search the other's eyes for the truth. "If this is how you fight the Galra, then it is a wonder we have survived this long." She spits the words out sharply like glass. Because of the exhaustion and his already electric nerves, he bites, fire igniting in his chest. He doesn't wonder why she is being so antagonistic tonight.

He launches a volley of quick jabs at her, all of which she dodges with precision. "Come at me with all you've got!" She catches his fist and uses the momentum to throw him over her back onto his. The atmosphere shifts into something wild and instinctual and unpredictable. His mind is in a haze, relying more and more on his gut. The distant roar of a crowd echoes faintly in his mind. Allura drifts in and out of focus. "Get up!" she commands, the authoritative tone from when they first met in full throttle.

He is up and moving with fierce force, pushing her back. She parries every punch he sends. His blood pulses an arrhythmic beat in his veins, in his temples. His heart races to keep up with his lungs. He is shaking so much that he feels still. Every part of his body, his soul is screaming _Survive!_ He heeds their call. She is trapped against the wall, when he snaps out of it and redirects his metal fist to the space beside her head. It lands with a threatening thud. She doesn't flinch nor remove her gaze from his. Their breaths mingle in the inches of space between them. The air is vibrating.

"What the _hell_ were you thinking?" His question is a menacing murmur, directed more to himself than at her. He doesn't make a move to increase the distance between them, only drops his arm to his side. Her face is void of any sign of remorse or fear. "Stop fighting yourself. You are not who they say you are."

"How would you know? You weren't there." Their voices are mere strangled whispers, as if they can diminish the enormity of the truths being spoken by using quieter intonations. "I know because I am here and because you are here. I know because that arena, though it has stolen things from you, has not stolen your humanity." She rests a feather-light hand on his chest, over his heart. His eyes follow the movement, then close, resting in her words, relying on her words. She laces her slender fingers in the cold, intricate joints of his right hand. Parts click and rotate to strengthen his grasp. "It is not the tool nor its maker. It is the user."

He exhales a breath he felt was residing in a deep, black corner of himself. He leans forward and rests his forehead against hers. She exhales as well, thankful that she could feel the tension melt like liquid metal and form a sizzling puddle at their feet. She didn't want to do this, but he always pretended to be okay with her. The veil was thin but it was there all the same. Her father once told her that combat transcended all other communication. A man's true self is revealed when trying to survive, when everything is on the line. At no point did she feel she was in danger, because his clouded mind continued to reflect a mirror back at himself.

He wraps his arms around her waist and buries his face in her neck. She returns the embrace, dropping her weight against the wall. "Thank you." It is a ghost across her neck, a chilling phantom of gratitude, that of which you question the existence of directly after an encounter. He squeezes her tight as if she is his anchor to reality. She rubs his back in delicate rings, whispering promises of how she will stay with him for tonight, for tomorrow, forever and desperate pleas for him to let her.


End file.
